


Five Stages

by tigriswolf



Series: Alternate Universe [84]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Deathfic, Episode: s01e02 Wendigo, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:57:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance</i>
</p><p>A world where Sam stayed at Stanford and Dean went after the wendigo alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. DYING

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of my first fics for Supernatural, written six years ago. I’ve made a few edits, but it’s largely unchanged.

**Denial**

The claw tore through his chest, and he felt nothing but pain – all over, unending. The wendigo, howling with rage, yanked its hand out, tearing more of his upper body.

He fell to the dirt, everything blackening, and thought, _This can’t be the end._

He woke on the floor of the cave, cold and sticky. His body felt numb and light, like there was nothing beneath his neck.

The wendigo moved around the shadows, chattering to itself, and he realized quite suddenly there was no way out of this. There would be no last minute plan, no rescue, no miracle.

_No, it was gonna be better than this. It was gonna be in the heat of battle, no pain. This can’t be how I die._

**Anger**

Listening to the beast move around, knowing there’d be no escape, he let all his anger well up, all his rage at the sudden futility of his life, at the life he’d never been able to live, and now for sure never would.

All the dreams he’d kept hidden from his father and brother, the dreams slowly eradicated by responsibility and love and a choice he’d never been given.

He was pissed at the wendigo for existing, pissed at the demon that started all this, pissed at his mother for leaving him, pissed at his father for leaving him, pissed at his brother for leaving him, pissed at himself for walking into this trap.

He was pissed at the sun for shining so bright and he’d never see it again. He was pissed for all the peanut M&M’s he’d never get to eat, for the water he’d never be able to sip, for the deep breaths he’d never take.

He was pissed for everything he’d never get to say, he was pissed for everything he’d never get to do, pissed that he’d never see his father smile or hear his brother laugh again.

Most of all, he was pissed at the tears rolling down his face because his arms weren’t listening to his command to wipe them away.

**Bargaining**

After he let his anger burn out, after he blacked out for another large chunk of his remaining time, he started listing what he’d do if a miracle did decide to show up.

First he’d take a long, burning shower. Then he’d gleefully consume a whole giant bag of peanut M&M’s, and sleep for a hundred years. Then he’d go back to his brother, tell him everything he’s never said, and then together they’d track down Dad. And they’d be a family again, whole, complete.

He actually opened his mouth to bargain with the wendigo, to ask it what’d it take to not kill him, but the words balked in his throat. He refused to beg, refused to plead.

But he sent out his thoughts to God or Death or Whoever was listening.

_Please, I don’t want to die, not yet. I want to see Sammy, to see Dad—I want to let them know I love them, let them know I’m sorry. I want—to want to see the sun rise again. Please, don’t let me die._

He began a list of what he’d do to be worthy of a second chance.

_I’ll never complain, never curse, I’ll—I’ll do anything. But—don’t take Sammy in my place, or Dad._

The wendigo crouched down and grabbed his face, blowing its horrible breath, wreathed with old blood and decay and death, at him. He bit back a comment about flossing, because that wouldn’t really help at all. 

The wendigo turned his head one way then the next, and Dean knew his bargaining had failed.

**Depression**

Dean sank deep into his mind, sheltering himself from the slowly increasing pain. He was too tired to be angry anymore.

More tears fell down his cheeks, dripped onto the ground, a loud constant ‘plop’ that was driving him mad. It echoed around him, jeering at him, laughing at all his failures and the dreams fluttering about him on broken wings.

The wendigo touched his face again, chattering, brushed at the tears. Dean wondered if it could remember being human, had any memory of crying.

Then he just decided not to care anymore. He was too tired.

**Acceptance**

_I’m dying. This is finally the end. There’s no way out, no escape, no last minute rescue. I’m dying alone, with only bones and my killer._

_Damn. This is it._

Dean watched the wendigo with calm eyes, completely ready. If he had to die, then he’d go with honor. If there was no way out, he wouldn’t make a fuss.

His body wouldn’t respond, anyway.

And finally the wendigo grabbed his neck —

_Bye, Sammy._


	2. BEREAVEMENT

**Denial**

_Bye, Sammy._

Sam woke with a start, his arms tight around Jess. Something was horribly, terribly wrong. Something was missing, something he’d never noticed before because it had always been there, in the back of his mind.

_Dean?_

Sam rolled out of the bed, remembering a few weeks earlier, when Dean had come by to ask for help. Had told Sam that Dad was missing, that Dean wanted him to help search. Sam had listened, had thought hard about it, and told Dean no.

“I can’t, Dean,” he’d said softly, unable to meet his brother’s eyes. “This is my life, now. I can’t just leave it, fly-by-night.”

“This is our family, Sam,” Dean had responded just as softly, because neither knew the other anymore. “You can’t just turn your back when—” he cut himself off, shook his head. “Please, Sam.”

It was the ‘please’ that caught his attention, probably the closest Dean had ever come to begging. He cajoled and he demanded, he didn’t plead or beg.

But Sam was sure. “I can’t,” he said again, reaching out to touch Dean’s shoulder, trying to say everything he needed to without vocalizing anything, because Dean had never needed words before.

So Sam watched Dean drive away and went back upstairs, to pull Jess close and breathe in her scent, to run his hands through her silky hair, wondering why this parting felt so final.

Now, with that feeling of dread building in his stomach, Sam grabbed his phone, dialed Dean, and knew nothing could have happened because Dean was forever, a force of nature, and couldn’t be stopped or slowed.

Dean would answer his phone, demand coldly what Sam wanted, still hurt by Sam’s refusal, and Sam would just say, “Sorry,” and Dean would be happy again, would tell Sam what he’d learned, and everything would be right with the world.

Dean was fine. His phone must be out of battery. Maybe he was out of range. Maybe the phone was on silent, because he was on a hunt. Sam would try again later.

**Anger**

A whole day passed and Sam continually cursed Dean for not picking up his cell, for not realizing Sam needed to hear his voice. Sam was curt with Jess, harsher than he’d ever been before, and knew the only reason she didn’t snap back was because he was still upset by his brother’s visit.

He paced around the apartment, ignoring Jess, and knew it was his fault, whatever’d happened to Dean.

Deep down inside, with a surety he’d never felt before, he knew it wasn’t supposed to be like this. In his dreams he’d seen Jess die, the same way he’d been told Mom died, and partly, that’s why he’d stayed. Why he’d refused to comply with the one thing his brother had ever asked of him.

And now—he clenched his hand around the phone, wanted to slam it through a wall, to demand that Dean answer his fucking cell and say some smartass remark and be _alive_.

Because—he couldn’t be dead. Sam was too angry for him to be dead.

**Bargaining**

Sam leaned against the wall of their living room, phone in hand, and said, “I’ll never leave him again if he’s alright.”

Jess had headed to class, reminding Sam he needed to go, too, but he didn’t respond.

“I’ll do anything.” He looked up the ceiling, raised his voice. “You hear me? I’ll do anything you want.” He harshly wiped his eyes, ran a hand through his hair, slid down the wall onto the floor. “He has to be alright. He’s Dean—invincible. Nothing’ll happen to him.”

He hit his speedial again, calling Dean—“If he answers the phone,” Sam whispered, “I’ll go immediately, and never look back.” No answer. He let it ring and ring and ring—then he hung up and called again.

The hours passed. Jess came back. He hadn’t moved from his spot against the wall, just shifted around, legs stretched out before him. The phone sat beside him and his hands were in his lap, as he stared vacantly, remembering the big brother of his childhood, the superhero who always saved him and protected him.

Jess knelt beside him, touched his face, said, “C’mon, Sam, you need to eat something.” He looked at her, wondering what he’d ever done to earn someone like her.

And he hated himself just a little bit when he realized he’d trade Jess for Dean in a heartbeat.

**Depression**

Sam finally gave up calling. He’d even tried Dad for a day, left dozens of messages. He sank deep into himself, feeling that tear in his soul growing ever-wider, that gap that used to be filled with his brother.

He spent hours filling notebooks upon notebooks with memories, because he knew one day his mind would fail. Jess watched from the doorway for a bit, and he waited for her to something, to ask what he was so worried about.

“Sam... I think... you need to talk to someone,” she finally began softly, walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t,” he responded, louder because speaking softly reminded him of his last conversation with Dean. _I should have gone with you. Whatever happened... I should have been there. Even if it was just to die with you, I belong at your side. Why did you let me go, Dean? Why didn’t you... cling to me, keep me from leaving? You’re dead now. Aren’t you? You’re dead, and I can’t reach Dad, and everything’s just so fucked up..._

Sam broke down at last and fell forward into Jess’s arms. “Shh,” she murmured, threading her fingers through his hair. “It’s alright. Everything’ll be alright.”

He didn’t believe her, knew nothing would ever, could ever, be alright again, but it was nice to pretend for awhile.

**Acceptance**

After a month, Sam knew Dean would never come back. Dad never called either, and Sam finally figured he must be truly, completely alone.

So he threw himself into school, into succeeding to make Dean proud. And he rarely cried in Jess’s arms anymore, and never spoke of Dean. Never told Jess why he’d been so worried, so angry and depressed, so... not _him_ for those few days.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, holding Jess in his arms, longing for the phone to ring and Dean to say something snarky, he thought he should feel _something_ , knowing that he’d still trade the love of his life for his brother.


End file.
